I stopped and caught my breath. “I don’t have to make that joke today. You have now officially made it for me.”
She laughed and shook her finger at me. “You outwit me every time,” she said, as the two tallest, fanciest memorials came into view.
I know I slow Alma down a very great deal, but I love to take her arm and listen to her chatter away about all the happenings in town, and who wore what to the early service at College Hill Presbyterian Church, the oldest house of worship in Lafayette County. At the entrance, I stopped again to catch my breath. I had not been here for some time, and I closed my eyes to envision my two destinations. They came to me as clear as day, and with a firmer step I set off without Alma’s assistance. I walked past the two banker showoffs, with their tall monuments within inches of each other in matching heights: J.W.T. Falkner and Bem Price. I stop a moment, and Alma and I exchange glances. “Men,” she says. “Is it indelicate to say that they will compete about size always and forever?”
But I had the bit in my teeth, and so I walked another fifty yards. We stopped, and I gestured at the grave in front of us with my walking stick, and Alma knelt to brush away the debris on the stone. She read aloud: “Eli Mays, 1835–1892: You Made Me Laugh.” She placed her bouquet of sweet peas, trailing jasmine, and zinnias on the gravesite.
Then she stood and put her arm around me. “You were married to Mr. Mays?” I nodded. “And did you love him very much? I would think you would love a man who made you laugh.”
“I grew to love him,” I said. “He was in love with me for a long time, since we were children, I think, and we…worked together during the War Between the States. So it was not a great passion on my part, but he sacrificed much for me. And I was grateful.” I felt the sun warming my back.
I could feel Alma’s puzzlement. This is not the story she expected to hear. “Granny Vic,” she said tentatively. “Can you tell me about Mr. Mays’s sacrifice?”
I began to tremble.
“You’re shaking. Come sit down.” She guided me to a stone bench, and we sat there a while. Suddenly the air was boisterous with music. Three hermit thrush had found the teetery old birdbath in the middle of the cemetery. They splashed and sang and danced around like drunken fools. I took a deep breath.
“I will tell you about Eli soon, but now, I want to introduce you to my other husband, my…” I struggled to say the words. “My sweetheart.” Alma looked at once puzzled and worried. I could tell she thought poor Granny Vic was finally going around the bend and not coming back. I patted her hand. “Don’t fret, child. You don’t need to worry about me. I’m fine. You’ll see. Just give an old lady a hand up.” Alma helped me to my feet, and we began the walk across the grass scattered with grand monuments and weeping stone angels. At the edge of the cemetery we passed the small sign that read: St. Peter’s, Colored Cemetery. And we walked in together.
CHAPTER 22
MAGGIE
OXFORD
“Victoria,” I whispered. “I want to know you.” I placed the letter on top of the small pile of those I’d already read; I closed the journal and placed the palm of my hand on top of the soft oxblood cover. It felt warm to the touch, as if Victoria herself had just finished writing and put it aside.
I rubbed my eyes furiously. The strain of making out Victoria’s shaky hand and Alma’s fine handwriting was exhausting. But how could I stop? Who was this brave woman? And who was she spying for? And why was all this a secret? At that, I laughed aloud. A spy? What white woman fell in love with a black man during the Civil War? Yes, I could see the need for being secretive.
The door between the bedroom and Beau’s museum space creaked open. Michael, in navy boxers with Hotty Toddy stenciled in cardinal on one leg, leaned against the door frame. “Maggie? It’s two in the morning. Come to bed.”
I opened my mouth to say I couldn’t, and to start rattling off what I’d read and the dozens of questions I had. But there he was, illuminated by the moonlight streaming in from the window, and I thought, Victoria needs to know that I believe in love as well. To be worthy of her.
I gestured to his boxers. “Nice undergarments, Mr. Fiori.”
He looked down. “They are, aren’t they? A gift from Beau.”
I stood up. “Two questions. Were they purchased at Neilson’s? And are they…removable?”
The answer to each question was yes, as it turned out, and in honor of Victoria, we paid our own tribute to love. Hotty toddy indeed.
The next morning, I was up early and ready to start interrogating Beau. I found him outside in the garden, tying up his tomato-plant extravaganza branches so that they wouldn’t touch the ground, so weighted down were they with late-fall heirlooms.
“Hey, honey,” he called. “Come give me a hand for a minute with these love-apples.” I picked up the green twine from the patio table and carried it over to the tomato patch. Together we staked and tied the branches.
Beau shook his head. “Well, it’s not a work of art like Phoebe would have done, but she’ll be pleased to see our rescue maneuvers. She’s been fussing and worrying about even one of those not-yet-ripe babies falling to the ground. Somehow we just didn’t get the tomato cages placed early enough this year.”
We brushed off our hands and gathered the leftover stakes. “You didn’t even blink when I called those tomatoes love-apples,” said Beau as we walked to the house. The screen door squeaked, but when we walked into the kitchen, it still had the heavy quiet of people sleeping.
“Hey,” I whispered. “I’m the granddaughter of Mississippi farmers. I’ve got to have some horticultural cred. I know that love-apples are one of the original names of tomatoes. And I know they’re a fruit, not a vegetable.”
We washed our hands at the big double sink. He let out a low snort. “Michael’s right. You are a little miss know-it-all.”
“Oh,” I said, “I’ve got more dope on love-apples. No one’s up — let’s take a walk to the square and score some coffee.”
We strolled past comfortable houses, including the Neilson family home, which was more mansion than house, and admired the gardens. Continuity matters in Mississippi, so everyone in town is proud to tell visitors that descendants of the Neilson family still own and run Oxford’s only department store, founded in 1839 and still helping young women look their best for the historic version of sorority rush devised by Ole Miss.
As we walked, I delivered a short but, all modesty aside, useful mini-lecture on the love-apples. “The related Hebrew word is dudaim. Which means love-plants. And, of course, they are related to the sexy and dangerous Mandragora officinalis, and I believe a kissing cousin to the nightshades. Oh, and you know what else? Mandrake was the common name, and the story went that if you pulled the plant up by its roots — which looked weirdly like the shape of a human being, with two carrot-shaped dangling legs — you’d be condemned to hell.”
“Makes gardening a mite dangerous.”
I was on a roll. “Of course, there’s always got to be a French contingent if we’re discussing the dangerous art of love, and in fact to the French, apples were pommes d’amour, the apples of love. But then it was the Spanish who eventually introduced tomatoes to the rest of Europe, and as is their wont, of course, the Europeans didn’t quite trust the Spanish. And that, mixed up with the deadly nightshade connection, is why people thought they might be poisonous. I think it was an act of daring to eat a love-apple. You know, risking everything for love.”
Next to me, Beau had stopped and was leaning on a pillar. I put my arm on his shoulder. “Beau? You okay?”
He was shaking, but he managed to nod. I stepped back a moment and realized he was shaking with laughter. He patted my cheek. “Maggie, you get on a tear and there is just no stopping you, is there?”
I sniffed. “Humph. I thought you were interested in the mandrake.”
“Honey, I can get interested in whatever wild tale you’re spinning. I’m just observing that once you’ve got that engine revve
d up, there are no brakes on that operation.”
“I suppose you’re not interested in more superstitions about the love-apples.”
“Are there more?” he asked faintly.
“It’s okay. Let’s just walk.”
We’d come to the square, and we began a stroll around its historic sides. A few coffee places just off the square were open, and the fragrance of coffee drifted out the windows. A few early-bird, up-and-at-‘em tourists were already climbing the stairs to the courthouse, peering in the windows, stepping back to look at the cupola on top, and then peering in again, hoping someone would open up. We stopped in front of Neilson’s, and in a window I spotted many variations of Michael’s boxers clothespinned to an artfully swinging clothesline.
“I’ve had a viewing of those boxers you bought Michael,” I said. “I don’t usually see him in boxers.”
“That may be too much information for me, honey. But now that you’ve seen them, are you a convert?”
I smiled. “I try to be flexible in my opinion about whatever option he chooses.”
Beau laughed. “Not your Auntie Phoebe. She forbade me to wear anything but boxers after we were married. She had some theory or other about keeping the air flowing around what she called ‘the gentleman’s parts.’”
We turned a corner and saw one of Oxford’s holiest grails, the statue of William Faulkner, relaxing on a bench. Without speaking, we detoured just a few steps and settled ourselves next to him on the bench.
“I can see your Grandmother Alma sitting right here,” he said. “She told me that it was a place that felt like home because she and her great-grandmother, Victoria, used to rest here when they were out for a walk.”
Beau paused and looked away. I put my hand on his. “What’s wrong, Beau?”
He swiped at his eyes. “Nothing, honey. I think about all that life — every new grandchild just wipes me out with love, and I think about how I may not see this one get married or that one become a parent.”
“Why? What’s wrong? Are you…ill, Beau?”
He laughed. “Not yet, no more than the usual aches and pains and a small stack of annoying pills my doctor makes me take. But I’m old, honey, and here’s how that works — apparently it is not in God’s plan for us to grow younger. And so it makes me hungry to hold my family even closer.” He shook his head. “Of course that means different things to different people, but I cannot abide the thought that a grandchild or niece or nephew of mine will be left behind when I’m gone without mastering the rudiments of fishing. I don’t have lots to offer, but I know my way around a line and a pole.”
I linked my arm in his, and we watched as the square began to fill with life. Shopkeepers raised blinds and straightened welcome mats. Runners and walkers powered by. Evolved Southern dads pushed strollers on their mission — to let mom sleep in and bring her back a perfectly prepared single nonfat latte. Sleepy Ole Miss girls, decked out in sweats instead of picture-perfect dresses and full-on makeup, crept into the square for caffeine (coffee or Coke) and dished over Saturday night.
A gaggle of three walked by, deconstructing rush and condemning some poor Connecticut boy to isolation. “He didn’t buy her flowers, and he showed up at the Grove in shorts and a T-shirt. You know.…”
They all giggled. “That dog won’t hunt,” crowed another one.
After their little morning-after parade went by, I sighed. Beau said, “Now, not a one of those young ladies can hold a patch to you, Maggie.”
I smiled. “Beau, you are so full of walkabout-on-air pudding.”
“Your mama used to say that.”
“Thinking about what lasts when we’re gone…that’s why you’re letting me into Victoria’s past, isn’t it?”
CHAPTER 23
ALMA, 1941
Dearest Granny Vic,
I can hardly write you without weeping. And then I am ashamed of myself, because I am weeping over something that happened to you — and it is not my right to feel as strongly as I feel. I cannot even begin to imagine the terror you must have felt about being discovered, but still you went on, loving Mr. Gabriel, being…well, I guess you would say, a double agent? And through it all, caring for the wounded, whether they wore blue or gray or polka dots! You were a hero, Granny Vic, and I have never known a real live hero who didn’t just exist in a book. There should be a book about you!
Now I am wandering around the mulberry bush when I want to say a few important things to you. I wrote myself a list last night so I wouldn’t forget anything that I wanted to say. Here is my list:
1.Thank you for allowing me to visit Mr. Eli and Mr. Gabriel with you at the cemetery. I wish I had known both of them. I’m afraid I might have liked Mr. Eli best — you know I always fall easily for those smart, sardonic young men. I like their banter, even though I sometimes think that is a very superficial reason to choose a beau.
2.I was shocked when I saw the date of Mr. Gabriel’s death. He died so soon after you had wed. And when you told me that he had “fallen from the sky,” when the surveillance balloon crashed, I could only think of you. You told me you were frightened every time he went up in the air, and then you had the courage to go up with him. In disguise! And what cruel irony that you received the news by telegram. And I know that Mr. Eli made you angry, wheedling and cajoling you into so many dangerous initiatives. But how wonderful to be with a man who has such confidence in you! (PS. I wish I had known Great-Grandfather Jules as well, but at least I have heard about him and have seen photographs. I am glad you two had a long and happy marriage, and I think kindly of him because you told him your truths and he married you. He measured your character with love and generosity.)
3.I think you are the most courageous person I know. This is a strange thing to say, because you have kept so many secrets for so many years, but you are also the most honest person I have known.
I confess to you that I am both excited and a little scared about my own next adventure, serving in the Army. Though I have pooh-poohed all of mama and daddy’s concerns about leaving home, crossing an ocean, and caring for people whose wounds are likely to be more terrible than what I have been trained for — you know my heart and my mind, and they are full of bravado. That is a very different thing than being really, truly brave. But now I know that there must be some of your courage and persistence running in my veins, and I feel…better. I will not disappoint you.
4.I realize that I don’t know much about love, real love. Until now, I have judged young men on three criteria. Could they dance? Could they kiss? Could they make me laugh? Actually, come to think of it, I’ve not yet met a man who was good at all three. I hope I will someday! I will be guided by your story. If you don’t have the courage to love the right person, then you don’t deserve love at all.
And now, Granny Vic, I am going to take my frivolous, frightened-but-willing self to bed. But I could not sleep without telling you what you inspired in me.
All my love,
Alma
CHAPTER 24
VICTORIA’S JOURNAL, 1862
What is the measure of a good man? I have known good men: my brother, my father, kind doctors I have met in my work, those who did not care whether they cut away gray or blue uniforms, caring only for the man and his suffering. But I have been puzzled by what constitutes true goodness, true greatness of spirit in time of war, where winning is all and men seem like nothing but cannon fodder. But today, as the terrible battles of Fredericksburg ravaged people and place, word came to us of heroism and courage, exemplified in one modest Confederate sergeant, Richard Rowland Kirkland.
We have been overwhelmed with wounded at Chimborazo, and yet we know that the numbers of dead and wounded among the Union troops were far greater. As the Confederate wounded came to us, what I call “peacock-talk,” the little-boy excitement of prevailing against great odds, ran around the hospital. But that talk quieted as the realities of wounds and a long, uncertain path to recovery took center stage. And then a quieter
story, a glorious story, began to make the rounds on the ward about Sergeant Kirkland. As I cared for one young man, cleaning and bandaging and trying to distract him from his pain, I asked him to tell me about the place he came from. He looked at me and then did exactly what I wanted, turning away from the sight of the inflamed and oozing site I was cleaning. “I come from the town where the Angel of Marye’s Heights was born,” he said proudly. “Flat Rock, South Carolina.”
“I don’t know about this Angel,” I said. “You must tell me more.”
And off he went, young Ezra from Flat Rock, telling me quite a tale. “Oh, it was a terrible, awful thing. I didn’t know this part about soldiering, about listening to the moans and the cries of those men we had near-to slaughtered.” He shuddered. “I used to help my daddy slaughter pigs, and you’d hear those pitiful grunts and squeals, as if they knew what was coming. Well, this,” he swallowed hard, “was so much worse.”
“Yes,” I said, trying to keep a bitter note out of my voice, “I understand the system General Lee’s lieutenants set up was near-perfect. Inescapable, even.”
“You know, we had ourselves all lined up behind the stone wall that squats right at the bottom of Marye’s Heights. There we all were, a wall ourselves: artillery, cavalry, everybody. One by one, we stretched for miles. Those dumb Yankees made their way across the canal, and then they set out toward us across a wide-open field. At first I was scared to death. But then I saw what was going to happen. As they came close to us, we mowed ‘em down like tin soldiers. There was nowhere to hide! You would think that being dead was the worst thing that could happen.” He gulped. “But it is not. Not a bit of it. The worst was laying in wait behind the stone fence, and listening to the sound of all those Union blues who were hit, but not dead. They were crying out for water, for their mamas, asking God to take them.”
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